Q was going to run to the gas station the other night for smokes, and, because I’m so nice, I offered to go with him and keep him company, even though it was late and I was already in my pajamas. I didn’t feel like putting on socks or tying my shoes, so I pulled a box out of my closet that contained a two-year-old pair of never-been-worn sandals and put them on.
Before I tell you what happened next, let me give you some backgound on these sandals and my cheapness and my hatred for shopping so that you can sympathize with my side of the story and not his.
My mom talked me into buying these sandals two summers ago because my favorite flip flops were falling apart. And also gave me blisters. Which I endured because I’m cheap and also I figured they’d eventually turn into calluses (the blisters, not the flip flops) and then I’d be fine. So, my mom tricked me into going shoe shopping one day, and I was getting irritated because it was apparently the summer of the girly flip flops and I couldn’t find anything that didn’t have rhinestones and flowers and beads and hearts and glitter and bows and sequins and china patterns all over them in the first ten minutes at any given shoe store.
So, we end up in Off Broadway Shoe Warehouse, which is completely overwhelming to me, because there is literally a sea of footwear, all in rows, all about elbow-height, so you can see every single shoe in the whole goddamn place by standing in one spot and spinning around in circles, and my mom holds up these sandals from several miles away and yells, “These are cork! You’ll love them! They’re so comfortable!” I’m not a huge fan of sandals, but I can see that they’re plain black, praise Jeebus, so I leap over several rows of shoe displays, try them on, and hot damn, they actually are pretty comfortable, now let’s pay and get to the liquor store before it closes. I get up to the register only to find out they’re SIXTY FUCKING DOLLARS. I look at my mom like she’s betrayed me, and she rolls her eyes and is all, “They’re worth it. I have a pair that have cork soles, and they’re so. comfortable.” So I pay. And we leave. And then they live in my closet for two years because 1. I still don’t really like sandals, and 2. I’m actually afraid to wear them because I paid so goddamn much for them I’d be really pissed if I tripped and busted a strap or something.
But by now, two years later, I figure I can’t return them, and it’s actually worse that I let them keep sitting in the closet than accidently busting a strap, so I may as well wear them.
So, I’m putting on my new old sandals the other night, and Q sees them, and suddenly he’s all waggling his finger and going, “Oh no, honey, those are not Tevas. Please tell me you are not wearing Tevas. Those things are fucking awful.”
Me: “What are Tevas?”
Q: “Those stupid things on your feet.”
Me: “YOU’RE WEARING CROCS.”
So then we get in a big argument about who’s the bigger douche, me for buying an expensive pair of hippie sandals, or him for wearing a pair of clown shoes that were a gift and so he therefore did not actively acquire them like that makes them okay.
You look at the pictures below and you tell me–